Monday, January 24, 2011

Drunks Say the Darndest Things 3

I may be the only one who loves these quote posts so much—and I don’t care. I’m totally fine with the fact that this is all for me.

Pulling these together is never as easy as it would seem. There’s a wealth of material, sure; but often I neglect to make note of quotes as they happen, and therefore don’t have it at the ready when writing out the story (it may be shocking to read, but sometimes I tend to forget things when I’ve been drinking). Of those I do remember, I try to save some for a DSTDT post, but inevitably a lot of quotes are told as parts of other narratives. Typical of this new age of social media, though, I did manage to collect a couple from my friends’ Facebook status updates (that’s right folks—nothing’s sacred anymore). And, as usual, I have also included one of the many random moments of brilliance from years past that have sat in my crew’s vault, dusty and unpublished—until now.

During our pre-Brewski, Friday-night-on-the-town in Johnstown last April, Dupa was in rare form. He put on a one-man show, dancing with the girls, wearing Shannon’s earrings, and spitting out zingers left and right. Far more than the alcohol, though, what seemed to inspire his verbal mastery on this night was our favorite doctor’s revealing attire. During one pause in the group’s convo, he turned to Dr. Kelly and—saying, “Let’s pretend I’m an ostrich and your cleavage is a sand pit”—buried his face in her chest.

The best of his best, however, came not much later. The girls and guys had momentarily dissolved into separate conversations, and during a small break in ours Dupa looked over again at Dr. By then he was merely the dummy to the booze’s ventriloquist act, and didn’t seem to realize that his thoughts weren’t being restricted to his head. Barely loud enough for her to hear, he said, “I’m BP, and you’re the Gulf Coast; wanna see my oil spill?”

The following night at Seven Springs, after a long day of Brewski pregaming, Brewski Festing, and Brewski after-partying, our cast of characters found themselves pushed to their limits. By the end of the night we were a broken and battered platoon administering battlefield triage throughout the sprawling mountain resort. When he dragged himself over to the bar to get a beer at last call, Entertainer found LRG standing there alone, finishing a drink.

Within seconds they were approached by a bouncer who was visibly unhappy. Pointing at LRG, the bouncer barked, “He’s cut off!” Entertainer, stunned, assured the bouncer that he would keep LRG from causing more trouble. “Look, it’s last call, so he’s not drinking more anyways,” he argued. The bouncer relented, and walked off. Despite the confrontation, LRG had remained decidedly unfazed.

My manager may be a grandmother, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hang. I’ve seen this firsthand on a few business trips; the years, however, may finally be catching up to her. Last month her daughter got married, and among the dessert items at the reception were cannolis filled with a cream made with three different kinds of liquor. And it seems the baker used a liberal amount of each alcohol in the creation of these On the Rocks-worthy pastries, to the point where my manager told me, “I didn’t drink much at the wedding; but then when I went to bed…the ceiling fan wasn’t on, but it was moving.”

Last Memorial Day, TD was out of hand. She bounced around without stoppage at her and Baby Joey’s annual party, dancing, yelling at people randomly, and kissing her girlfriends in true barsexual spirit. Late in the night, she and her friend Leah were the subject of a fantastic picture, in which Leah sat in shock as her friend performed an impromptu lap dance on her. Leah’s facial expression as TD’s sundress is thrust at her in the photo is priceless. After I showed them the picture, TD summed up the moment captured by the digital eye. “Everything Leah does with her face, I do with my crotch.”

One weeknight last spring, her girl 2Ls popped up in my Facebook news feed with a quick message to a dear friend. “hangover, I'll meet you in the morning, 8am, give or take... until then, have a good night..”

How in the name of Jack Daniels do you ever begin a serious drinking session knowing you haven’t eaten within the last several hours? I just can’t imagine another drinking rule as clear-cut and painfully obvious as “drinking on an empty stomach will destroy you”. And yet, one recent Tuesday morning I had the following conversation with a friend who had been sending me drunk texts at 6 pm the day before.

Me: “So how you feeling today?” Him: “All good. A little lightheaded this morning, but I think that's because I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I puked twice, and I should not have driven home last night.” Me: “So, explain to me exactly how you say to yourself, ‘I haven't had any food all day. I should ingest some alcohol.’" Him: “Silly... I didn't start talking to myself ‘til drink #8 or so.”

Pakistanimal’s birthday was last June, and we decided to keep it somewhat reserved. TJ, Dupa, and Pak pregamed at my place, and then we all hit the ‘Side to make the blurry happen. We were soon joined at the William Penn Tavern by a murderer’s row of LRG and a few of his homies, Jay Swag, and Mitch Canada. After several rounds of birthday shots and various drinks, Pak was dazed, and found himself in a moment of defiant truthfulness while staring at a random bar slore nearby. “Yeah, I’m fucked up,” he announced to her, “and I’m looking at your tits.”

A few days before St. Patty’s Day 2010, my buddy Weatherman was looking for a pair of smiling Irish eyes on Facebook. “Any Irish girls want to hang out? I'm drunk off Captain, and we could make one hell of an Irish pirate.”

A couple of Fridays ago, several of us took part in a bar crawl organized by one of TD’s friends. TJ and his girlfriend, who was in town visiting, were in attendance. Since “Racktacular” (TJ’s own turn of a phrase, not mine) lives in Tampa, it took until that night for her to finally be introduced to TD. It wasn’t long, though, before she and the crazy little blonde girl had become good buddies. At the second stop on the tour, a moment of beer-fueled jubilation took hold of TD, as she said to Rackt, “We just met—let’s bump boobs!”

Tony, also taking part in the crawl (by the way: all proceeds were going to charity, so it would’ve been socially irresponsible of us to not get sloppy drunk that night), found himself engaged in conversation with two random guys at one of the bars. After he finally pulled himself away from his new fan club, Tony then had to deal with TJ, Dupa, and I, who of course made many comments and unfounded insinuations about his true sexual orientation and the intentions of the two strangers. His immediate response, though, did little to halt that line of thinking. Waving off our jokes, he countered, “Dudes fucking love me.”

One night several years ago, BlahBlahBlah, myself, and a few others met up at Hooters in Station Square (which has since closed) for happy hour drinks and food. The Hooters Girls were running a sports trivia game, wherein each table competed against the others to be the first to correctly answer questions. Midway through the contest, the sexy waitress in charge of it read aloud a question involving Earvin “Magic” Johnson. BBB found himself unable to hold back his mouth, instantly (and quite audibly) shooting back, “I’ll give you a ‘magic’ Johnson.’”